Dear Arwen . . .
by Miss Padfoot
Summary: My first attempt at LOTR! On his first mission after leaving Rivendell, Aragorn misses his home


Okay, I'm not exactly sure what this is. Let's just say a homesick college freshman who knows a little too much about unrequited love finds something to relate to in the idea of poor twenty-year-old Estel leaving Rivendell for the first time. As I try to study for finals I find myself wondering what he must feel like, a kid who has grown up in the Last Homely House, suddenly being in command of the Rangers, most of whom are probably a lot older than him and much more experienced in the Wild . . . . I can just picture him sitting by the campfire on guard, writing a letter to Arwen, long before he had any idea that she would ever love him . . . this is more of a journal entry than a letter, but it's addressed to her.  
  
Okay that was a really long author's note . . . I'm not sure if this is any good but I wrote it sort of in preparation for a longer fic about Aragorn's first adventure after leaving home. Please R/R!  
  
Disclaimer: I do not own any of these characters and I'm not making any money off of them so please don't sue me! I have no money!!  
  
Dear Arwen,  
  
You won't ever read this, I suppose. At least I hope not. Not unless there comes at last a day when I may tell you what is in my heart. Still, all alone on guard out here, I can look up at the Evening Star and almost imagine you are sitting beside me. It is at times like these I miss you most.  
  
This is what Halbarad tells me he always loved about the life of a Ranger- lying on the wet grass on a clear night far from any civilization, all alone with only the stars for company. But wet grass is cold when winter approaches, more so when enemies nearby do not allow us to light a fire in safety. I can hardly enjoy the stars tonight. There are foul things hunting us now, and I am awake to watch for orcs, not stars. The wind sighs through the long grass, but every blade that moves might be a sign that an enemy is at hand.  
  
I am coming home to you, beloved. Vanimelda. See, I do remember some of the ancient tongues your father taught me. Not that I will ever be able to say that particular word to you. When I first left Rivendell I longed for my home, for you, for my life the way it used to be. Now I am coming home, but I fear it will never be the same.  
  
And not only because of your father, and how by daring to love his daughter I have perhaps forfeited all claim to his love. It is more than that now. I am not returning as a soldier on leave to his family. I can no longer be Elrond's son, first and foremost. Arathorn son of Arador is my father, a man I never knew, who I never got a chance to love-who has given me nothing save a broken sword and the hopeless war in which he died.  
  
No longer can I be Estel of Rivendell, of the house of Elrond. No longer even can I put Arwen Undomiel first in all my thoughts and actions, though my heart desires nothing more. I love you, Arwen, lady of Imladris and of Lorien. But too many men have died for my sake and for the sake of my fathers, for me to let love rule all my acts. Too many have suffered and died to give me my chance to fight in this war, and too many now look to me as their leader, for me to disappoint them.  
  
I thought it was bitter that you love me not. I thought it was bitter that Elrond would seem to forsake me because I dared to love you. Nothing is more bitter than this, my dearest love, my heart's most precious, than to know in my own heart, beyond possibility of denial, that there are other things I must put first. That not only is it hopeless that I should win your love, but that I cannot even try. I cannot lay aside this war, these men who trust in me, to be with you, to even take what comfort I could in your friendship.  
  
So, indeed, have others told me, and greatly did I resent them for it. But to know that they are right-I cannot argue with what I myself know to be the truth. I do not know whether I will see you in Rivendell. I pray that I might, but I will not be able, as I was, to plot carefully so as to arrange a way to have our paths cross. I must see to my own people, to the injured men I bring to your father for healing. That is the hardest, to be home and yet not home, to be unable to take comfort even from the presence and conversation of my family.  
  
Do not think, Arwen, that I do not love the men I now serve. When I first came among them, I felt unsure of my place, that I did not belong here, that they resented my presence and that they expected of me far more than I was willing to give. I have fought beside them now, saved and been saved by them, seen friends cut down by orc-arrows. One cannot go through battles such as we have, and not love one's comrades.  
  
Yet I cannot explain the desolation that grips my heart tonight, so close to the fair valley that was once home. Honor and duty are words I was taught to revere, but I have never truly understood their meaning till now. I used to long for your love, for your father's forgiveness, to come back home like I could before. Now, though, I know that even if I could give up my own birthright and come home to stay, I could not pretend even to myself that I did so with honor. Even if I had your love with your father's blessing, I could not wed you as I am now, or force you to endure the life my mother led. Nor could I abandon this quest to be your husband, even if you would wish me to do so.  
  
And yet, for all I must give up for them, there is precious little I can do for these men I lead. Your father has taught me some skill in healing, but all herb-lore is vain when the proper herbs cannot be found. I can lead them to Rivendell, for only I among this company know the secret way, but if any of our wounded survive to reach Elrond's house, it will be from luck and not any skill of mine. If the weather holds-if the orcs are too far behind, or too few to attempt a pursuit-if there are no other perils that wait in the wilderness ahead. There are too many chances still, too many things that might still go wrong. I could stay up all night planning for every contingency, but it will be the one thing I do not plan for that will be our undoing. And I cannot fail now. We must make it to Rivendell. There are too many ghosts haunting my sleep already!  
  
You will never read this, but I hope you think of me, wherever you are. I think of you now, as I always do, watching as the Evening Star sets- asleep in Elrond's house, or in the woods where we used to walk. I may not see you or speak to you soon, still I must believe that you think of me at times. I must believe it. Good night, love!  
  
I remain, though no others call me so any more,  
  
Your own,  
  
Estel. 


End file.
